Cheshire grins drifted from the heavens like

Cheshire grins drifted from the heavens like fat snowflakes. To be touched meant immediate and perpetual mirth resulting in a long, riotous cachinnate towards death by starvation.

The epidemic plague of laughter and mass frivolity must be stopped! Scientist in underground bunkers worked around the clock for a natural vaccination of grumpiness.

But since it take a lot more muscles to frown than it does to laugh the progress was tediously slow. The plague of laughter continued unchecked; frivolity unabated.

Still, I persisted. "Stop giggling at FoldingStory, you numbskulls!" I frowned as hard as I could, hoping my bad mood would rub off on my shipmates. Another snicker from the back

and off I went a caterwauling about their family history of raping each other and the livestock and, here's the kicker, as they were all gingers, selling their souls to the Devil.

"Lies! Everyone knows Ginger have no souls!" i could not make out who had decried such an accusation for a fog was settling in. 'There is always a bumpkin' i muttered to myself. It

was, of course, Mary Anne. The weather started getting rough. The tiny ship was tossed. I wasn't going to make it to the casting couch, the leading role was lost. But Mr. Howell

raced over to Ginger and grabbed her by the...well...suffice it to say that ginger was more like Nutmeg (if you catch my drift). So, while nobody was looking, Gilligan went to

"Oh, hi Mary Ann! Got any lemons? I thought it'd be nice on a hot day like this." "I got your lemons, Gilligan," MaryAnn purred. "And some sugar too!" Oblivious, Gilligan squeezed.